It has been the same
the canvass
on which she poured colors
vibrant, dramatic, dark
the faint faces
seemed the same too
over the years
nothing changed
figures, forms
a woman of small means
smaller space
tiny winy little drops of life
small insignificant living
sometimes she turned around
in anger
filling her canvass with hatred
sometimes hours of humor
or simple jealousies
small yet eventful fantasies
tiny dashes of anger
sprouting emotions
yet this canvass
the essence of who she was
has been the same
small in many ways
insignificant to many others
yet true to her self
when I felt love
she said, I felt it well
when I don’t, I don’t
where is the space for
intervals in loving
she said turning to me
long intermissions
has been my pattern
said the other
sager, wiser perhaps or not
my dreams are ordinary
my moments are simple
hence my life is thus
so be it
said I and walked away.
